


That Don't Impress Me Much

by Directionless_Foray



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Emotional Constipation, M/M, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Workplace Relationship, how has no one else writen 007!cris, like seriously, the fic writes itself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:48:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7287760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/pseuds/Directionless_Foray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all work for the secret service. </p><p>Mesut regrets not being assigned to Casillas every damn day (not really though).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The road to right now

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't stay away. Also I am perpetually crozil trash. Also I was shocked no one has written 007!cris before, genuine shock.
> 
> Unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Mesut doesn’t even bother looking up from his laptop when the battered briefcase lands on his desk. “Would it kill you to at least _pretend_ you tried to return the equipment in one piece?”

“Why Mes, I thought you cared more about me than some _easily replaceable_ _equipment_ ,” Cris’ grin is disarming and warm. Mesut doesn’t need to survey the room to know there are approximately eight people currently swooning over 007. It’s a foregone conclusion at this point.

Mesut rolls his eyes, “well seeing as how you always manage to return in one piece I feel my concern is better spent on the equipment.” Cris’ pout doesn’t surprise Mesut. Again, foregone conclusion.

With a sigh he closes his laptop and puts it aside for now. Wordlessly Cris slides over the briefcase, teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Mesut says his silent prayers and flips open the briefcase.

He closes his eyes and breathes slowly through his nose before he speaks. “007, you do this on purpose don’t you?” He deliberately doesn’t look at the mangled remains of the gun. The _beautiful silent-discharge, heat-sensor calibrated_ glock he’d personally designed.

007’s laugh is familiar and maybe just a little bit fond. He ruffles Mesut’s hair, “whatever helps you sleep at night,” he whispers in his ear.

-

When Mesut was first assigned to Cristiano he remembers M levelled him with a considering look. Mesut doesn’t know what he was looking for but he figures M found it. He clapped a hand on Mesut’s back and offered a wry “good luck.”

He’d heard the rumours of course, the secret service everyone was rather prone to office gossip. Sergio reckoned it was a direct result of the whole job description, “I mean everyone is so used to secrecy, it’s not just an occupational hazard, it’s like a permanent symptom,” he shrugs as he stirs three sugars into his coffee. “So if it isn’t embargoed, or a matter of national security it’s pretty much free game,” he adds.

Marcelo nods from his position perched on Mesut’s glass top desk, “buddy, you’ve joined an organisation whose employees are disturbingly obsessed with each other’s personal lives and dirty laundry.”

Sergio nods, “we’re all so used to knowing everything about everyone, it kind of just snowballs into wanting to know every sordid detail about everyone you work with, speaking of which Mes you really ought to invest in a better lock on the door to you apartment-”

Mesut throws a tissue box in Sergio’s general direction as Marcelo cackles.

So yeah, Mesut’s heard the rumours, double-oh agents are notoriously difficult to work with, none more so than 007. However the stories he hears are mostly made up (at least he hopes 007 did not _actually_ blow up a section of Paris’ underground tunnels on a whim) and he knows that his job as a handler is less about reigning in his agent’s penchant for causing a scene but to make sure that at the end of the day the mission is completed with minimal collateral and said agent is on a plane home.

-

Mesut swears as 007 severs his visual connection yet again. “I could have been assigned to Casillas,” he moans quietly to himself, but still loud enough for 007 to hear through his head piece.

“Hey, I cans still hear you!” Mesut rolls his eyes at Cristiano’s faux outrage.

“So can I!” Sergio yells from across the room, arms crossed indignantly.

“I’m flattered Mesut but I’m happy with Sergio at the moment...” Iker’s response is predictably dry.

“Damn straight!” Sergio barks loudly.

Iker continues as if he hasn’t heard Sergio, “... even though his timing often leaves something to be desired, and he spilled hot coffee on the comm wires once and then there’s that time he mistook Georgia the country with Georgia the state-”

“Shut up 004, aren’t you meant to be seducing some heiress or something,” Sergio’s cheeks are an angry pink. He covers his mouth piece, “make one small mistake one time and no one ever lets you forget it,” he grumbles to himself.

“Sergio you literally almost sent him to the wrong country. The wrong continent too in fact. Had the tickets and everything-”

“SHUT UP MESUT!”

Mesut hears a faint crackling on his private comm link to Cristiano, “see, I’m not so bad really.”

“Being the lesser of two evils, or more accurately, two nuisances is hardly a thing to be proud of 007,” he deadpans.

“Guess I’ll have to give you something else to be proud of then...” Mesut’s got an awful feeling in the pit his stomach, that same feeling he gets when 007 decides to damn the mission specifications and blow up a large very visible building. The sound of frenzied gunshots only confirm his suspicions. “Godammit 007! You’re not meant to engage with the target!”

Mesut takes a deep breath as his visual link returns. Sergio offers him a sympathetic smile. _Casillas is probably following Sergio’s instruction and following his mission brief down to the last detail_ Mesut thinks bitterly to himself as gunshots ring in his earpiece.

He was _this close_ to getting assigned Casillas.

-

No one knows Mesut works for MI6, not his family, his neighbours no one. Mesut doesn’t really have any friends outside of his work friends so he doesn’t really need to worry about lying to them, _depressing as it sounds,_ it has its perks.

His family thinks he works in IT at some financial consulting firm for tech start ups. All he knows is that the moment he starts talking about coding and hedge funds his dad’s eyes glaze over and his mother smiles encouragingly, and he may be lying to everyone, everyone who _matters_ , but he’s also keeping them safe and the inconvenient truth is that it simply has to be this way.

The road that led Mesut to his current employment is hardly an exciting one. He grew up surrounded by the warmth of love and the relative comforts of the middle class. He breezed through high school careful to toe the line between genius and above average. At his parent teacher interviews his teachers all lamented that if he were to try harder, put in more effort, he could easily be top of the class. Mesut didn’t, still doesn’t to an extent, care about being on the top of a list. All he cared about was cruising through life with effortless ease. He graduated college magna cum laude and more than a little directionless.

For the first time in his life his calculated indifference would not serve him well. He was met with the prospect of a future of a nine-to-five job, indifferently living his unremarkable life until it ended.

When M approached him, in a nondescript cafe as the rain battered against the windows relentlessly, it was all rather anticlimactic.

The first thing Mesut noticed was that the man’s impeccably tailored suit was spotless, not a single drop of rain on his wool suit. Mesut on the other hand was acutely aware of the sartorial inadequacy of his oversized sweatshirt and old trackies. But the man smiled gently, pulled up the chair across from Mesut and asked him if he’d like to work for the secret service.

In retrospect Mesut probably shouldn’t have laughed so loudly in the face of his future employer, though in his defence, his _stress induced_ and _sleep deprived_ defence, it did sound like a joke. He leant back and rubbed his eyes and stared at the man sat across from him. “Are you fucking with me sir?”

The man had laughed, shook his head and leant forward. The man extended his left hand and arched a brow, “Mr Ozil, are you ready to put your skill set towards something bigger than you, bigger than all of us?”

And for the first time in his life Mesut made a spontaneous decision, a decision not motivated by indifference, but rather an intense desire to do something, to be a part of something, he cared about. In that moment Mesut made a silent vow to end his self-imposed exile of indifference. Mesut blinked twice, nodded slowly and shook the man’s hand.

“My name- well, you can call me M.”

And the rest, as they say, is  _history._


	2. Many a winding road

Mesut knows objectively that 007 is handsome. In fact all the double-oh agents look suspiciously like they traipsed off the cover of Vogue but Cristiano is in a league of his own. However acknowledging this, or worse, succumbing to Cristiano’s private toothy grins will do neither of them any good so Mesut rolls his eyes a lot and ignores the way his colleagues tend to giggle and blush in the presence of his agent. 

 

It’s okay though, Mesut is used to pretending to be unaffected. 

 

-

 

Cristiano’s worked with a lot of MI6’s handlers. They all start blurring into the same collection of characteristics: organised, time-management oriented, lightning fast typists who can hack into any organization (there was also that really odd week that Sergio was assigned as his handler, let’s just say it’s a relief Amsterdam is still standing). 

 

Anyway, by the time Cristiano is assigned to Mesut he’s pretty disenchanted. He’s expecting another uptight handler who blushes oh-so prettily when Cristiano flashes a particularly flirtatious smile. He’s not expecting a mouthy little shit with soulful giant brown eyes and a razor sharp tongue who is seemingly perpetually unimpressed by Cristiano.

 

Cristiano is used to pretty faces and empty heads, pretty words and empty promises. He’s well aware that his bruised and battered psyche probably boasts at least a dozen diagnosable emotional and psychological conditions. _Then and again,_ _you don’t work for the secret service if you’re a well-adjusted, fully functioning person._ That doesn’t mean he’s wrong about everything though. Dependence will always be the ultimate weakness, Cristiano is the center of his universe, because this way no one gets the opportunity to let him down, to _hurt_ him. Independence is the only way Cristiano knows how to survive.  

 

He’s alive but he’s not living, he’s just  _ existing. _ It’s depressing to think about so he doesn’t give himself the chance to think about it. 

 

Cristiano’s life fills in neat little boxes  _ and that’s the way it’s always been. _

 

There are few things Cristiano doesn’t expect; Mesut Ozil is at the top of that short list. 

 

-

 

“... so I heard a great joke the other day,” Cristiano offers.

 

Mesut opens and closes his mouth, he brings one hand up to his earpiece, “are you honestly making small talk while we wait for the ambassador to give the go ahead for the detonation of a thermonuclear bomb?”

 

“... maybe.”

 

Mesut massages the bridge of his nose, an involuntary smile works its way onto his face. “I heard a great joke too, it involves a double-oh agent who pissed his handler off so much his luggage  _ accidentally _ got lost en route to Shanghai.”

 

There’s a sharp intake of breath, “you said that was an  _ accident _ ,” Cristiano grins whilst feigning shock. “I had to sleep  _ nude _ ,” he admonishes Mesut mock-seriously. 

 

“Please, 007 I’m pretty sure you always sleep nude.”

 

“Have you been spying on me? Kinky.”

 

“Hardly, I’ve just packed your suitcase on more than one occasion 007,” Mesut rolls his eyes as he scans heat sensor footage. 

 

“Target on the move, heading towards main conservatory.”

 

“Affirmative 007,” Mesut’s fingers fly across his keyboard as he pulls up floorplans and security camera footage, “I have two secure entrances, recommending the one obscured by the cluster of ferns, should be the first door to your left, watch out for the reflection on the roof.”

 

“Affirmative. Going in.”

 

“Good luck 007.”

 

“Don’t need it babe, initiating radio silence.”

 

Mesut chuckles to himself. For all his faults, Mesut couldn’t imagine working with any other agent.  

 

-

 

“You should come and get drinks with us,” Sami suggests casually. 

 

Mesut presses his lips together, he pauses before responding, “... Irina… scares me.”

 

“She’s cool.”

 

“She’s your handler.”

 

“Yeah, she’s cool.”

 

“I’ve heard the dirty talk during missions.”

 

“That’s just friendly banter, Mes.”

 

“She sits behind me Sami, I’ve literally heard  _ every word _ .”

 

“... It’s not  _ that _ bad.”

 

“I’ve heard details about lingerie, details pertaining to lace and colour preferences, Sami.”

 

“You and Cris kind of do it too, plus Sergio and Iker’s have their super awkward version.”

 

“Sergio’s in-love with Iker though-  _ and also, I am  _ **_not_ ** .”

 

“You kind of are though,” Irina’s silky voice interrupts them, she drapes a lithe arm across Sami’s shoulders. Irina gracefully uses one hand to pat Sami’s bicep and her other to tuck a glossy strand of hair behind an ear _. _

 

“I-I am  _ not _ ,” Mesut dismisses hotly.   

 

Irina cocks her head to the side and blinks, she turns to Sami, “is he serious,?” she mouths.

 

“Tragically... I think so,” he mouths back shrugging.

 

“I can both see the two of you and crack your  _ elaborate _ code, also  _ you are standing right in front of me.” _

 

They both laugh,  _ for an insultingly long time too _ , and make Mesut promise to go for drinks. 

Mesut watches them walk in perfect tandem and ponders for the millionth time what relationship exactly exists between those two.  _ Platonic best buds who enjoy plotting world domination and a spot of dirty talk _ is the closest approximation he can come up with.

 

A red light flickering on his screen alerts Mesut to a communication request. 

 

“007, are you on your way back? We aren’t due to touch base for an hour or-”

 

“This is 007”  _ the line cuts out _ , “requesting intel,”  _ the line cuts out again _ and Mesut freezes, “I’m being followed, I can’t-”  _ cut _ , “transmission-”  _ cut, _ “temporarily jammed-”  _ cut, _ the blood drains from Mesut’s face _ , _ “the ambassador-” _ cut,  _ “Mesut please-”  

 

“Dammit 007, what the fuck is going on?” Mesut hisses into his headset, his fist clenches and unclenches unconsciously. “This is not funny!” Mesut’s voice verges on hysterical.

 

Sergio rushes to his side typing into his tablet whilst yelling into his headset, “004 have you got eyes on 007? No? When did you two make contact last?” 

 

Sami and Irina have also made their hasty way over, plans for drinks forgotten. Their frightening competence and efficiency registers as a slight relief in the back of Mesut’s shellshocked mind. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this.  
> Comments and kudos are treasured.


End file.
